DAWN 


BY 

KATHARINE 
HOLLAND 
BROWN 


CNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LBHURY,  LOS  ANGELES 


DAWN 


"Hoist  that  roll  of  blankets,  Prosper" 


DAWN 


BY 

KATHARINE  HOLLAND 
BROWN 


ILLUSTRATED    BT 

F.  WALTER  TAYLOR 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  Co. 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1904, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Copyright,  1907, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  Go. 


THB  UNIVERSITY  PKISS,  CAMBHIDQK,  U.  3.  A. 


To  G.  E.  E. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"Hoist  that  roll  of  blankets,  Prosper"   Frontispiece 

Young  Angus 22 

Old  Angus 28 

Twonnet 34 

"The  beast  knew  me  for  a  quitter"      ...     38 

In   the    gray  of  the  Christmas  morning,  he 
knew  himself  conqueror 48 


DAWN 


IS  it  that  you  would  make  a  jest 
of  me,  M'sieu?  " 

Prosper's  tone  grew  keenly  plain- 
tive. He  swept  the  straits,  ice- 
barred,  flashing  white  in  the  blind 
November  sunlight,  with  brown 
eloquent  palms .  ' '  That  one  should 
desire  to  camp  in  midwinter  upon 
the  Great  Bear,  that  isle  desole,  to 
live  in  that  cabin  of  logs,  with  the 
chinks  so  gran'  that  the  snow  shall 
sift  in  upon  you  like  feathers,  to 
feed  upon  these  meats  of  tin,  these 
horrors,  to  sit  all  day  and  behol' 
only  the  sun,  the  storm  ;  to  hear  at 
night  but  the  lament  of  these  mis- 
erables,  the  pines  —  " 

[9] 


DAWN 

"  I  've  told  you  my  plans  already. 
Gome  on."  Benedict  swung  the 
heavy  bag  over  his  shoulder  and 
tried  the  ice  with  an  unsteady  foot. 
It  rang  beneath  his  shuffling  stamp 
like  a  floor  of  polished  steel. 

* '  But  the  air  I  It  is  of  a  chill  to 
wither,  M'sieu.  And  there  remains 
no  game,  nothing  but  a  partridge, 
a  starved  hare,  perhaps.  And  the 
ice  is  as  the  crust  of  the  world.  It 
will  freeze  again  while  that  you 
may  chop  one  hole  for  the  fishing. 
Moreover,  consider  I  This  solitude 
most  horrible !  " 

"Hoist  that  roll  of  blankets, 
Prosper." 

Prosper 's  shrug  ran  the  gamut 
of  perplexities,  rebukes,  afflictions. 
' '  And  I  am  bind  myself  as  guide 
to  this  maniac  for  the  month  1  " 

[10] 


DAWN 

he  muttered  wrathfully.  "  Qu' 
c'est  imbecile  I  " 

Benedict,  already  staggering 
ahead  beneath  his  pack,  heard  and 
laughed  out.  Two  fools  together 
they  were,  of  a  surety.  Then,  at 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  he 
stopped,  panic-stricken  ;  he  blinked 
about  him  fearfully  ;  his  grip  slack- 
ened on  the  heavy  pack.  Supposing 
They  had  heard  him  I  Supposing 
They  had  seen  ! 

He  looked  behind.  His  pinched 
gray  face,  his  big  wavering  body, 
even,  seemed  to  shrink,  to  concen- 
trate to  a  focus  of  dread,  all  staring 
listening  nerves.  But  there  was 
nothing  to  fear  ;  only  a  white  har- 
bor town,  winter-sealed,  its  frosted 
roofs  a-glitter,  smoke  rising  in  thin 
amethystine  curls  from  the  red  chim- 


DAWN 

neys.  Beyond,  the  pines  reared 
their  solemn  ramparts;  before  it, 
far  as  dazzled  eye  might  follow, 
blazed  the  lake,  ribbed  in  ice  from 
rim  to  heart,  a  sea  of  glass  and  fire. 
A  long  cloud-rack  drifted  across  the 
sun ;  dimmed  like  mist  upon  a 
shield,  the  lake  fell  violet,  amber, 
rose,  an  answering  heaven  of  radi- 
ances. Benedict  shifted  his  pack  ; 
his  dry  lips  relaxed.  No  wonder 
he  was  startled  at  his  own  laugh, 
he  told  himself  apologetically,  kick- 
ing back  at  the  fears  that  hounded 
him.  It  was  a  good  while  since  he 
had  heard  it.  Up  here  he  could 
laugh  all  he  liked,  thank  the  Lord. 
Up  here  he  could  breathe — he  could 
let  go ! 

He  rubbed  his  hand  against  his 
head ;    it   seemed   as    though   the 


DAWN 

strap  that  had  tightened  across  his 
temples  all  these  months  loosened 
a  little.  However,  it  would  never 
slacken  completely,  they  had  told 
him.  He  trotted  on,  stumbling 
over  the  rough  ice  ;  he  spoke  their 
verdict  over  to  himself  again  and 
again,  stolidly,  patiently,  as  though 
he  would  fit  his  slipping  wits  to  the 
meter  of  the  truth.  "  —  out-door 
life  —  freedom  from  responsibility 
—  no  more  close  application  — 
'  Broken  china,  my  dear  Doctor  I 
Broken  china !  ' 

No  more  close  application  I  Good 
God,  what  was  life  for  ? 

He  ground  his  teeth  at  the  mock- 
ery of  it ;  his  heart  sickened  within 
him.  Was  it  for  this  that  he  had 
spent  himself,  body  and  soul,  on 
the  science  that  was  as  the  breath 


DAWN 

of  his  being  ?  What  if  he  had  over- 
worked? Men  had  overworked  be- 
fore, then  doubled  on  their  traces 
and  dodged  Retribution.  But  he 
had  strung  his  powers  to  the  break- 
ing place  for  so  long,  so  the  physi- 
cians had  explained,  laboring  to  ease 
the  blow.  There  were  those  five 
years  in  Leipsic,  without  a  month 
of  rest ;  there  were  the  seven  years 
in  Bellevue,  when  he  tramped  the 
wards  by  day  and  slaved  in  his  lab- 
oratory by  night,  and  wrote  at  his 
book  when  he  should  have  stopped 
for  breath.  Then  came  the  ten 
years  when  he  added  a  mounting 
snowball  of  private  practice  to  his 
work  as  head  surgeon  of  a  great 
railway.  That  meant  the  strain  of 
travel,  of  jarring  light  on  eyes  al- 
ready taxed  past  endurance,  respon- 


DAWN 

sibilities  that  dragged  and  rasped 
and  harried.  He  had  kept  up, 
though,  cool,  tautstrung,  unfailing, 
until  that  day —  Ah-h  I  He  had 
better  not  remember. 

Yet  he  did  remember.  He 
watched  with  gruesome  amusement 
as  the  scroll  of  his  shame  unrolled 
before  him.  He  had  watched  it  so 
many  times,  in  beating  agony,  in 
dull  endurance  !  He  could  afford 
to  be  calm,  now.  It  was  all  over 
and  done  with. 

He  saw  the  wide  amphitheatre, 
the  ranks  of  students  leaning  silent, 
watchful,  their  notebooks  shut,  un- 
heeded. The  internes  stood  at  his 
elbow,  fresh  as  young  priests  in 
their  blanched  linen ;  the  nurses 
waited  silent  on  his  word.  Beneath 
his  hand,  for  life  or  for  death,  lay 


DAWN 


the  patient,  a  bearded  Russian, 
gray-white  under  the  ether ;  he  him- 
self was  working  at  the  broad,  hairy 
throat,  his  fingers  sliding  with  wiz- 
ard lightness,  his  low  voice  check- 
ing off  orders,  unhurried,  swift. 
He  was  completing  the  operation ; 
he  was  tying  the  last  tiny  artery — 
Ughl  Where  could  that  blue  fog 
come  from  ? 

He  brushed  an  impatient  hand 
across  his  eyes.  The  room  dark- 
ened slowly ;  probably  a  thunder- 
storm was  coming  up.  He  stooped 
to  the  patient ;  his  fingers  opened — 
shut  —  opened .  What  in  the  world 
possessed  his  hands  that  they  would 
not  grip  ?  The  blue  haze  shut  in 
thicker,  thicker ;  the  patient's  face 
was  a  wan  blur. 

He  turned  furiously  to  the  near- 
[16]  " 


DAWN 

est  interne.  "Turn  on  the  elec- 
trics !  "  he  said  harshly.  The  man 
gaped  back  at  him,  a  sick  face  of 
bewilderment.  He  spoke  again : 
then  he  knew  that  from  his  lips 
came  only  a  senseless  gurgle.  They 
were  pushing  close  around  him  now, 
internes,  nurses,  all  staring,  white- 
lipped.  From  the  galleries  there 
rang  down  to  him  a  great  cry :  hor- 
ror, pity  unutterable.  And  as  he 
would  have  thrust  them  back  in 
a  rage  of  explanation,  with  lips  that 
could  not  move,  with  hands  that 
fell  open,  lax  as  the  hands  of  the 
dying,  his  Night  had  closed  down 
upon  him. 

He  would  be  well  again,  they  had 
promised  him,  when,  after  long 
months  he  had  learned  to  walk  and 
to  speak  once  more.  Assuredly  he 

[17] 


DAWN 

was  well  again,  he  reflected  whim- 
sically. His  muscles  were  ungov- 
erned,  his  sight  was  dimmed,  his 
hands  shook  without  ceasing ;  but 
he  could  eat  and  sleep,  and  carry  a 
pack  of  half  his  own  weight.  What 
more  could  a  man  ask?  He  had 
laughed  in  their  faces  when  they 
had  told  him  gently  that  he  could 
never  practise  again  :  the  memory 
of  their  stare  at  the  note  of  his 
laughter  made  him  cringe  now.  At 
any  rate,  he  was  not  mad — not  yet. 
However,  it  might  be  hard  to  con- 
vince them  of  that.  They  had  been 
disgustingly  obstinate  about  other 
things.  So  he  had  stolen  away  up 
here,  his  place  of  sanctuary  on  his 
one  other  vacation,  ten  years  ago. 
Up  here  he  could  breathe — he  could 
let  go  I 

tit] 


DAWN 

* '  Regard  our  palace  !  "  sniffed 
Prosper,  with  a  flourish.  A  log 
hut,  banked  to  the  sills  in  powdery 
snow,  its  tiny  deep-set  panes  all 
gold-leaf  in  the  westering  light,  stood 
close  to  the  shore.  Benedict  an- 
swered faintly ;  Prosper  glanced 
round,  then  dropped  his  pack  and 
dragged  the  exhausted  man  up  the 
beach  and  into  the  low  door.  Bene- 
dict yielded  to  his  deft  care  with 
the  stupid  docility  so  hardly  learned 
through  these  slow  months  of  tor- 
turing dependence.  Perhaps  this 
had  been  the  bitterest  cup ;  he, 
always  giver,  to  bow  his  head  and 
receive ! 

Later,  he  lay  in  his  bunk,  lapped 

in  the  double    luxury  of  warmth 

and  silence,  while  Prosper  flickered 

velvet-shod  about  the  cabin .    Within 

[>9J 


DAWN 

there  shone  no  light  save  the  deep- 
ening hearth-glow ;  through  the 
port-hole  window  at  his  feet  he 
looked  out  on  the  still  winter  world, 
hushed  heneath  the  solemn  magic 
of  the  frost.  Away  to  the  west- 
ward stretched  the  ice,  a  bleak  gray 
sea,  ridged  in  unmoving  waves. 
Above,  a  few  stars  twinkled,  high 
and  clear.  And  the  blue  of  the 
far  night  sky  was  the  blue  of  an 
arch  of  steel. 

' '  I  wonder  if  there  are  any  home 
stars  on  this  forsaken  coast,"  mut- 
tered Benedict.  This  vast,  impas- 
sive splendor  chafed  and  daunted 
him.  He  stood  an  awed  pygmy 
before  this  sovereignty  of  night 
and  sea ,  unpitying ,  remote .  ' '  You , 
Prosper !  Are  there  any  other  Ar- 
cadians loose  on  this  isle  desole  ? 


DAWN 

Anybody  that  breathes,  but  the  owls 
and  the  foxes?  " 

' '  Neighbors  ?  Of  a  truth,  yes, 
M'sieu.  Regard  to  your  left,  on 

the  shore  of  Sundered  Island.     Le 

*i»  ?  " 
voila  I 

The  spark  of  light  across  the  dip 
of  the  bay  glimmered  so  faint,  it 
might  have  been  but  another  star. 
But  its  gleam  was  the  golden  shine 
of  a  hearth,  not  the  cold,  white 
glitter  of  far  suns. 

' '  This  is  the  cabin  of  the  old 
McAlister,  himself  as  is  keeper  of 
harbor  lights  for  the  Government. 
There  lives  he,  even  through  the 
winter ;  also  his  son  Angus,  and 
Twonnet,  the  wife  of  his  son.  And 
with  her  now  is  Nanna  Saugier  ;  — 
half-breed,  yes ;  but  woman  of 
years  and  of  wisdom.  Twonnet  is 


DAWN 

possessed  of  neither,  though  she  has 
of  beauty  enough  and  to  spare. 
Ah,  this  is  a  fair  blossom  1  " 

' '  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  there 
are  women  living  on  this  God- 
forsaken place  ?  " 

"Assuredly,  M'sieu.  And  the 
way  of  it  is  thus ;  the  old  McAlister 
has  remaining  to  him  but  this  one 
son,  the  beloved  of  his  heart.  Al- 
ways has  he  kept  the  boy  with  him, 
here  upon  this  solitude ;  always 
has  he  kept  upon  him  the  eye  of  a 
hawk,  because  of  his  great  love, 
which  fears  ever  that  he  may  make 
some  friend  more  dear  to  him  than 
this  father,  who  so  adores  him. 
Jealous?  Of  a  jealousy  which  would 
blight ,  M '  sieu ;  which  would  shrivel 
the  new  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

' '  But   the   boy   has    never   had 


'JSG    AjiCLS 


DAWN 

thought  for  another  till  the  year 
gone,  when  he  has  first  seen  Twon- 
net — Twonnet  Beaupre,  she  was 
then.  And  it  is  like  he  has  walked 
in  his  sleep,  all  his  life  ;  with  that 
first  look  he  is  wake'  up.  Of  a 
truth,  he  is  h'innocent ;  he  '11  go 
to  his  father  an'  tell  him  all  which 
he  is  come  to  feel. 

* '  '  I  must  have  her  for  wife, ' 
he  '11  say.  '  She  shall  be  to  you 
daughter  and  beloved  ;  and  to  both 
of  us  shall  she  take  the  place  of  the 
mother  who  is  depart.' 

"Angry?  Ah,  but  he  has  of 
wits,  that  old  one,  though  he  is  of 
the  Scotch  blood,  with  the  heart  as 
hard  as  the  fist.  He  has  of  wisdom 
to  keep  silence.  The  boy  knows 
not  the  grief  which  he  has  given  ; 
he  goes  on,  blind  in  his  new  joy. 
[aS] 


DAWN 

"  But  his  court  prospers  not. 
Twonnet  loves  him,  perhaps  ;  but 
she  is  all  whim.  Moreover,  she 
has  many  suitors ;  she  will  not  yield 
to  his  first  prayer.  Soon  there 
come  cruel  words  to  him,  strange 
sayings  of  this  girl  whom  he  adores. 
Twonnet  is  orphan  and  alone ;  to 
her  there  float  also  all  evil  reports 
of  the  young  Angus  ;  and  there  is 
none  to  comfort  her.  There  are 
long  months  when  they  both  suffer  ; 
at  last,  like  the  white  lightning, 
there  comes  upon  them  a  knowing 
of  the  truth.  It  is  his  father,  the 
old  Angus,  who  has  sowed  these 
lies,  that  he  may  keep  them  apart. 

"  Bien,  the  young  Angus  has 
also  of  the  strong  will.  It  is  upon 
the  morning  of  the  New  Year  that 
this  word  comes  to  him.  Upon  that 


DAWN 

night  he  has  taken  Twonnet,  and 
they  have  crossed  the  ice  hand  in 
hand  to  St.  Ignace.  There  the 
priest  has  made  them  man  and 
wife.  He  has  brought  her  back  to 
his  father  in  the  first  red  of  the  day. 

' '  '  Behold  my  wife,  she  to  whom 
you  owe  of  love  and  of  honor,'  he 
has  said.  The  old  Angus  gave  him 
no  word.  Only  he  waited.  And 
they  tell  it  that  the  son's  face  grew 
white  as  Easter  snows. 

"  '  If  that  you  will  cherish  her 
as  your  own,  then  am  I  still  your 
son,'  he  has  spoken  on.  '  Else  we 
go  now  and  live  to  you  strangers. 
For  we  are  one  flesh.  And  even 
you,  my  father,  shall  not  come 
between.' 

"The  old  Angus  —  ah,  he  was 
brave  !  For  love  of  his  son  he  has 

[*] 


DAWN 

curbed  that  fierce  tongue,  he  has 
tried  to  do  his  part.  Yet  has  he  of 
harshness  with  Twonnet ;  and  she 
—  she  may  not  forgive  those  words 
which  she  believes  that  he  has 
spoken.  Always  she  strives  to 
lead  her  man  away  ;  always  she 
plans  to  push  father  and  son  apart, 
to  thrust  herself  between.  It  is  a 
pity,  not  so?  But  c'est  Twonnet. 
And  beautiful  ?  Even  as  the  sky  at 
dawn." 

' '  But,  Prosper  1 "  Benedict  turned 
impatiently  on  his  bunk.  The  grim 
little  story  had  roused  him  strangely 
from  his  wonted  apathy.  "You 
don't  mean  that  the  man  spread 
those  lies  about  his  own  son  ? 
Or  that  he  slandered  an  orphan 
girl,  even  to  keep  his  boy  ?  It 's 
preposterous!  " 


DAWJV 

Prosper  flung  both  slim  palms 
outward  with  a  disclaiming  shrug. 
"  Who  knows,  M'sieu?  I  but  tell 
the  tale  as  it  was  brought  to  me. 
Of  a  truth  there  are  many  minds 
upon  this  thing ;  and  the  word 
passes —  M'sieu!  Hark!" 

Above  the  purr  of  the  sinking 
fire  they  heard  the  creak  of  heavy 
footsteps  on  the  snow.  The  steps 
paused  outside  ;  a  hand  fumbled  at 
the  latch. 

' '  Prosper !     The  door !  " 

Prosper  sprang  to  open  it ;  but 
the  stranger  waited  not  upon  cour- 
tesy. The  latch  shrieked  upward ; 
the  guest  entered,  bringing  in  a 
gust  of  icy  air.  He  wasted  no  greet- 
ing on  either  of  the  men  ;  he  ducked 
his  white  head  that  it  might  not 
graze  the  beams,  and  stared  about 


DAWN 

the  room,  tranquilly  curious,  su- 
perbly unabashed.  His  tremendous 
body,  erect  as  an  old  fir  in  its  worn 
bearskins,  shouldered  the  little  room 
till  it  seemed  a  cabin  of  Lilliput.  By 
unerring  instinct,  Benedict  knew 
him  for  the  man  whose  name  was 
still  warm  upon  their  lips. 

* '  Sit  down  and  have  a  pipe  with 
us,"  he  ventured. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head. 
"  Na,  but  I'll  be  afther  takin'  my 
breath  in  the  warm,"  he  returned, 
dragging  a  stool  to  the  hearth.  The 
brogue  was  North  Ireland  ;  so  were 
the  eyes,  blue  as  dark  sea-pools 
under  gray  hooded  brows.  But 
the  mouth  was  true  Scotch,  harsh- 
hewn  granite. 

' '  Ye  're  fixed  fine  an'  easy 
here,"  he  went  on,  after  a  long 

[•8] 


OLD   AMJUS 


DAWN 

silence.  "Ye 're  thinkin'  to  hunt, 
I'll  warrant.  But  there'll  be  no 
game  left  on  the  Island.  They  're 
wise,  the  beasts.  Here  it  do  be 
on'y  the  mid  of  November,  an' 
they're  away  to  the  mainland  for 
pasture,  while  yet  the  first  freezin' 
is  strong.  They  can  smell  the  bit- 
ter winter.  They  '11  be  wiser  than 
we,  the  beasts." 

Prosper  nipped  a  glowing  coal 
in  the  tongs,  and  offered  it  to  him. 
He  lighted  his  pipe  mechanically, 
then  settled  back  in  the  warm  stones 
of  the  chimney. 

' '  Then  it's  to  be  a  hard  winter  ?  " 
* '  The  fur  '11  be  heavy  as  wool 
on  the  squirrels,"  he  said  shortly, 
after  a  taciturn  pause.  "There'll 
be  the  frost- writin'  on  the  trees, 
too,  shure.  If  ye  know  the  woods, 


DAWN 

ye '11  read  the  sign  of  a  black  Mich- 
aelmas on  every  bush  an'  twig." 

Benedict  laughed  drowsily .  This 
talk  of  the  woods  came  to  him  like 
a  lost  strain  of  his  boyhood.  How 
many  years  could  it  be  since  he  had 
tramped  the  Vermont  hills  in  the 
glare  of  a  freezing  November  sun- 
set, his  skates  clinking  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  had  stopped  to  dig  at  the 
maple  bark  for  a  guess  at  the  win- 
ter's length? 

His  eyelids  fell  in  a  sudden  leth- 
argy. Through  its  gray  woof  there 
flickered  now  and  then  a  word  from 
Prosper,  a  mutter  from  the  woods- 
man ;  and  he  knew  dimly  that  they 
spoke  of  him ;  yet  he  had  no  will 
to  rebuke. 

Presently  he  felt  himself  slipping 
down  into  the  sleep  that  he  had 
[3o] 


DAWN 

learned  to  prize  so  dearly.  He 
yielded  with  exquisite  peace;  yet 
his  dulled  brain  heard  and  replied 
to  old  Angus' s  gruff  parting  word. 

"So  ye '11  have  been  sick,  thin! 
Sure  ye've  come  to  the  quare  place 
iritirely  to  throw  it  off,  man.  But 
may  the  saints  be  good  to  ye,  an' 
make  ye  whole  1  " 

And  in  the  deep  rest  that  came 
to  him,  there  seemed  an  earnest  of 
the  forester's  hope. 

The  world  was  all  adrift  in  roll- 
ing fog,  thick  as  gray  smoke,  when 
he  awoke  again.  Prosper  bent  over 
the  fireplace ;  savory  whiffs  of  bacon 
and  boiling  coffee  eddied  through 
the  room .  He  slipped  on  his  clothes 
and  blundered  out  of  doors,  then 
halted  on  the  step,  gasping  at  the 
shock  of  the  icy  air. 
[3,J 


DAWN 

"Get  along,  you  coward!"  he 
said  savagely.  He  breathed  deep, 
shuddering  from  head  to  foot ;  his 
shaken  heart  leaped  and  pounded 
at  the  strain.  But  he  stumbled  on 
through  the  creaking  snow,  till  he 
reached  the  sandy  spit  which  jutted 
out  toward  Sundered  Island. 

As  yet  the  fog  loomed  soft  be- 
tween a  shifting  ashen  wall.  But 
its  dull  waves  lightened,  paling  from 
leaden  gray  to  pearl,  from  pearl  to 
silver.  Faint  rainbow  iridescence 
gleamed  through  its  melting  bil- 
lows ;  then,  like  a  far  trumpet-note, 
the  thinning  vapor  flamed  to  lumi- 
nous gold;  and  in  another  breath 
it  quivered,  faded,  vanished  before 
the  might  of  sunrise. 

Now  the  Strait  shone  white  as  a 
floor  of  glass.  Old  Angus's  cabin 


DAWN 

on  Sundered  Beach  stood  out  sharp 
and  clear.  Through  this  thin,  de- 
ceptive air  the  hut  seemed  within  a 
stone's  throw  ;  yet,  framed  in  its 
wreath  of  pines,  it  had  the  pictured 
quality  of  distance.  Benedict  looked 
at  it  indifferently.  This  long  sleep 
had  blunted  the  memory  of  the  night 
before,  till  its  story  seemed  woven 
in  his  dreams. 

The  cabin  door  opened  ;  there 
came  out  the  old  Angus,  then  a 
tall  lad,  bundled  like  the  father  in 
bearskins,  and  carrying  a  light 
pack.  They  were  starting  on  a 
day's  lumbering,  probably.  Bene- 
dict watched  them  with  sudden 
interest.  How  good  it  would  be 
to  tramp  the  scented  woods,  to 
swing  an  axe  again  — 

Then    he    looked    down    at    his 

3  [33] 


DAWN 

flat,  nerveless  hands.  He  shut  his 
teeth. 

The  door  opened  once  more .  The 
younger  man  looked  back  eagerly  ; 
the  elder  turned  his  back  with  elab- 
orate indifference,  and  shaded  his 
eyes  to  sight  across  the  bay. 

A  girl,  bare-headed,  wrapped  in 
a  long  red  cloak  that  made  a  fiery 
stain  against  the  snow,  came  down 
the  rough  steps.  The  boy  glanced 
at  his  father,  grim  figure  of  scorn  ; 
then,  with  head  bent,  as  in  proud 
shame,  he  turned  back  to  the  girl 
and  took  her  in  his  arms.  The  red 
cloak  fell  away  as  she  put  up  her 
hands  about  his  neck.  Benedict 
could  catch  the  sheen  of  the  light 
on  her  bronze-gold  braids,  the  white 
of  her  round  arm.  Without  a  sight 
of  her  face,  he  could  vision  the  love- 
[34] 


TWONNET 


DAWN 


liness  which  the  young  husband 
stooped  to  caress.  And  the  father 
stood  his  ground,  silent,  aloof, 


unseeing. 


A  great  unreasoning  pity  caught 
his  heart.  The  story  was  so  clear  I 
Husband  and  wife,  linked  in  love 
and  closest  understanding,  soon  to 
be  bound  by  even  a  dearer  tie  ;  and 
on  the  verge  of  their  fair  world  the 
father,  clinging  miserably  to  the 
one  power  vouchsafed  him  in  his 
stripped  defeat :  the  power  to  give 
pain. 

"As  if  there  was  n't  enough 
agony  in  the  world  without  their 
pitching  in  to  make  some!"  mut- 
tered Benedict.  The  boy  had 
put  her  gently  back,  and  turned  to 
join  the  father.  Perhaps  his 
was  the  harsher  grief,  torn  as 
[35] 


DAWN 

he  was  between  the  two  he  loved. 
Yet  Benedict's  heart  went  out  to 
the  older  man.  For  sorrow  is 
doubly  sorrow  to  him  who  faces 
it  alone. 

The  days  slid  by  with  eerie  swift- 
ness, a  conjuror's  beads  upon  his 
woven  cord  of  shine  and  gloom. 
There  were  the  crystal  days  when 
lake  and  cloud,  and  even  island  and 
forest,  seemed  built  up  of  spun 
glass  and  glancing  light,  so  fine,  so 
clear,  so  fragile,  that  a  breath  might 
shatter.  There  were  the  dun  days 
of  menace,  when  the  ice  lay  black 
beneath  the  heaving  night  of  the 
sky,  and  the  pines  sighed  like 
plumed  mutes  stooping  above  a 
bier.  There  were  the  white  fog 
mornings,  when  the  sunlight  melted 
through  films  of  rose  and  gold  and 
[36] 


DAWN 

milky  violet,  and  to  step  from  the 
cabin  was  to  step  into  the  heart  of 
a  vast  opal.  There  were  the  hoar- 
frost mornings,  with  every  twig  a 
pearl. 

To  Benedict  their  glory  was  a 
glory  dimmed  and  faint.  He  had 
lived  too  long  apart  from  Nature  to 
yield  at  once  to  her  spell.  Yet 
there  came  times  when  the  old 
charm  of  crying  winds  and  mur- 
muring forest  called  aloud  in  his 
heart,  and  roused  him,  keen  and 
trembling,  from  his  torpor  of  de- 
spair. Then  he  would  struggle 
out  into  the  white  silence,  fighting 
his  way  inch  by  inch,  hour  by  hour, 
against  the  weakness  that  dragged 
upon  him  like  a  poisoned  cloak. 
Sometimes  he  fancied  that  he  felt 
the  pulses  of  faint  returning  strength 
[37] 


DAWN 


in  his  numb  limbs ;  more  often  Pros- 
per, lurking  at  a  safe  distance, 
would  appear  at  the  opportune 
moment  and  help  him  home,  too 
exhausted  to  protest. 

Once  hViook  a  gun,  determined 

to    test   ef '"*  and   hand   in  marks- 

«/• 
manship,      incidentally     to     bring 

home  a  brace  of  rabbits  for  supper. 
But  his  step  was  heavy,  and  his 
wavering  grip  could  not  keep  the 
barrel  from  clashing  against  the 
bushes.  The  game  had  ample 
warning ;  not  a  rabbit  did  he  see. 
But  as  he  dragged  painfully  up  a 
shelving  beach,  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  brown,  sleek  body,  a  splen- 
did trailing  brush,  not  forty  feet 
away. 

"A    red    fox  —  a    dandy!"    he 
gasped,  bringing  his  rifle  to  bear. 
[38] 


"The  Least  knew  me  for  a  quitter" 


DAWN 

The  beast  stopped,  eyed  him  coolly  ; 
he  felt  the  gun  jerk  against  his 
shoulder.  Good  Lord !  was  he 
such  a  nerveless  weakling  that  he 
could  not  muster  spirit  enough  to 
aim  a  gun  ? 

The  sights  danced  and  glimmered 
before  his  eyes.  He  laid  the  piece 
down,  took  it  up,  laid  it  down 
again  ;  his  hands  shook  like  the 
hands  of  palsied  age.  The  fox 
looked  at  him,  unflinching,  a  mo- 
ment longer  ;  then  it  turned  and 
trotted  deliberately  away.  Bene- 
dict clutched  at  the  tightening  cord 
about  his  head. 

' '  The  beast  knew  me  for  a  quit- 
ter," he  groaned,  in  helpless  fury. 
There  were  red  sparks  in  his  dulled 
eyes  ;  the  sweat  glittered  about  his 
twitching  mouth.  "  If  I  can't  rule 

[39] 


DAWN 

this  big  whimpering  whelp  of  a 
body,  I'll  sink  it!  I'll — oh,  shut 
up,  you  fool,  and  drink  it  down  ! " 
So  he  pushed  on,  clutching  at 
every  straw  of  hope,  as  a  man  who 
sinks  in  quicksands  clutches  even 
the  frail  reeds  upon  the  bank.  But 
there  came  hours  when  even  his 
royal  courage  crouched  before  de- 
spair. Perhaps  the  struggle  would 
have  been  less  bitter  had  there  been 
one  to  whom  he  could  cry  out  his 
agony.  But  there  was  none  to 
hear.  He  sat  alone  before  the 
ashes  of  his  days. 

* '  Also  to-night  will  be  the  ball 
of  the  eve  of  Christmas  at  St.  Ig- 
nace,  M'sieu.  Is  it  not  that  you 
would  wish  to  attend?  I  am  free 
to  bring  one  guest.  You  may  not 
[4o] 


DAWN 

have  of  choice  to  dance,  but  it  will 
be  a  thing  magnificent  to  see." 

Benedict  smiled  at  the  trans- 
parent hint.  ' '  Certainly  you  can 
go,  Prosper.  You  needn't  come 
back  till  after  Christmas.  I  '11  get 
along  all  right." 

Curled  and  scented  and  stun- 
ning, Prosper  stalked  away,  pour- 
ing forth  vows  of  eternal  gratitude. 
Benedict  cooked  his  own  supper 
and  washed  the  dishes,  clumsily 
enough,  yet  with  a  quaint  pride  in 
being  able  to  accomplish  this  prim- 
itive duty.  Then  he  took  a  book 
and  settled  down  for  a  quiet  even- 
ing. But  the  time  dragged.  Pros- 
per's  chatter  was  tedious  enough ; 
but  even  tedious  things  have  their 
ballast  of  compensation. 

Presently    warmth    and    silence 


DAWN 

had  their  will.  The  book  slid 
from  his  hands  ;  he  drifted  com- 
fortably into  the  doze  which  came 
nowadays,  instead  of  the  torpor  of 
the  months  past.  Yet  he  slept 
soundly,  for  shouts  and  blows  on 
the  heavy  door  did  not  arouse  him. 
Not  till  old  Angus  burst  the  latch 
from  its  casing  and  hurled  himself 
into  the  room  did  he  awaken. 

"  In  God's  name,  man,  have  ye 
no  ears?  Gome  !  " 

Old  Angus' s  grip  shut  fiercely 
on  his  shoulder.  The  terror  in 
the  old  man's  voice  startled  him 
more  than  the  rough  summons. 

"What's  up,  McAlister?  Any- 
thing happened  ?  " 

' '  '  Anything  happened  ? ' '  Mc- 
Alister's  voice  rose  in  a  shriek.  He 
stood  trembling  from  head  to  foot ; 


DAWN 

he  snatched  at  Benedict's  hands 
with  an  anguished  gesture.  ' '  Hap- 
pened, is  it  ?  Here's  me  boy,  gone 
to  the  mainland  the  mornin'  for  to 
get  a  bit  Christmas  for  Twonnet. 
He  '11  be  back  to-morra,  he  says, 
for  the  big  cracks  make  it  danger- 
some,  crossin'  the  Strait  by  night. 
To-night  Nanna  must  fall  on  the 
steps,  an'  scream  for  the  scare  of 
it.  She'll  not  be  hurted,  but  the 
noise  an'  the  cry  has  frighted  Twon- 
net, an' — Man,  her  Hour  is  come  1 
Ye 're  a  docther ;  go  back  to  her, 
whiles  I  find  my  son.  For  if  she 
slips  away  whiles  he  is  from  her, 
there  '11  be  no  livin'  left  for  him, 
— nor  me." 

"  I  '11  go  to  the  mainland  with 
you,"  said  Benedict,  hoarsely. 
"  We'll  bring  a  doctor  from  there. 


DAWN 

Nonsense,  I  can't  take  a  case  like 
that.  Good  Lord,  man,  you  don't 
know  what  you're  asking!  Look 
here."  He  thrust  his  twitching 
hands  before  the  other's  face. 
"  I  'm  sick,  I  tell  you.  I  would  n't 
risk  it  for  the  world.  What  if  I 
killed  her?  It's  no  more  than 
likely.  Let  me  alone,  I  say.  I 
won't.  I  can't!  " 

' '  Ye  've  got  to  go  I  "  the  old  voice 
shrilled  out,  frantic.  "Bring  a 
mainland  doctor  ?  The  breath  will 
be  gone  from  her  by  midnight, 
man.  I'm  all  that's  left  to  care 
for  her,  an'  now  she'll  die  on  my 
hands  —  me,  what's  grieved  and 
thwarted  her  all  her  days.  But 
niver  did  I  say  the  word  that  was 
brought  to  her.  Niver!  I'm  a 
hard  man,  but  God  forbid  that  I 
[44] 


DAWN 

speak  one  lyin'  word  again'  a  help- 
less woman,  though  she's  stole  the 
heart  of  me  life.  But  she'd  niver 
believe  but  that  I'd  spoke  it.  An' 
my  brute  pride  wouldna  let  me  tell 
her  the  truth.  She's  come  a'tween 
me  an'  my  son"  —  his  voice  broke 
in  a  great  sob — "but  I'd  give 
him  up  to  her,  body  an'  soul, 
if  I  could  forget  the  harsh  words 
I  've  spoke  her,  an'  she  in  the 
face  of  her  Time.  An'  oh,  the 
brave  heart  of  her!  The  brave 
heart  of  her  I  " 

They  stumbled  on  across  the 
ridged  ice,  gripping  each  other 
mechanically.  Benedict's  heart 
pounded  and  quivered  ;  but  for  the 
old  man's  grasp,  he  would  have 
pitched  over  again  and  again. 

"We  don't  need  to  stop  here!" 
[45] 


DAWN 

he  gasped  as  they  reached  McAlis- 
ter's  cabin.  "Let's  go  on.  We 
haven't  a  minute  to  spare." 

"Ye  have  n't  a  minute  to  spare, 
ye  mean , ' '  said  the  old  man ,  roughly . 
"  Hush,  now !  "  For  Benedict,  fren- 
zied at  his  unspoken  demand,  was 
praying  and  commanding  in  a 
breath.  "Ye '11  go  to  her  an' 
yell  do  yir  best.  No  human  be- 
ing can  do  more.  Manl"  The 
furious  protests  died  on  Benedict's 
lips  at  that  note  of  agony.  "Her 
life  lies  in  yir  hands  now.  An'  my 
soul  goes  out  if  ye  lose  it ! " 

He  thrust  Benedict  inside  the 
door  and  plunged  away.  The  ring 
of  his  footsteps  on  the  ice  echoed  a 
moment,  then  was  gone. 

Benedict  stood  staring  at  the 
fire.  The  room  eddied  and  swam 
[46] 


DAWN 

in  darkling  circles.  He  reeled  on 
the  brink  of  panic.  The  horror  of 
his  impotence,  the  shame  of  his 
collapse,  swept  over  him  in  drown- 
ing waves.  The  old  man's  cry 
heat  in  shrieking  echoes  upon  his 
hrain : 

' '  Her  life  —  in  your  hands  — 
And  my  soul !  " 

All  at  once  his  frantic  terror 
subsided  ;  he  lashed  his  staggering 
wits  into  line  with  the  whip  of  mer- 
ciless will.  "  It 's  no  good  trying 
to  bolt,"  he  found  himself  saying, 
very  quietly,  as  though  he  strove 
to  hearten  another.  "There's  no 
way  out.  Either  you  pull  up — 
or  they  lose  her.  You're  up  against 
it.  Go  on.  Keep  your  whip- 
handle.  You're  half  blind,  that's 
a  fact.  And  your  hands  are  no 


DAWN 

good.  And  your  nerve 's  gone. 
But  you're  up  against  it.  Go  on. 
Go  on! " 

Through  the  black  hour  that  fol- 
lowed, the  words  swung  like  a 
steadying  weight  within  his  brain. 
But  soon  they  melted  from,  his 
thought,  forgotten.  And  thus  he 
forgot  all  things  save  this  task  that 
he  must  do. 

He  was  no  longer  racked  with 
pity  for  the  old  man  in  his  horror 
of  remorse.  He  had  no  thought  for 
the  poor  young  husband  stumbling 
on  through  the  darkness,  and  clutch- 
ing to  his  breast  the  pitiful  little 
gift  which  his  love  might  never  see. 
He  was  a  machine  once  more,  splen- 
did, unerring,  pitiless.  Old  Nanna, 
still  dazed  by  her  fall,  yet  wise  in 
her  obedience,  stood  to  his  quiet 
[48] 


In  the  gray  of  the  Christmas  morning,  he  knew  himself 
conqueror 


DAWN 

orders ;  and  side  by  side,  through 
the  endless  night,  together  they 
fought  with  Death. 

In  the  gray  of  the  Christmas 
morning,  he  knew  himself  con- 
queror. He  laid  the  baby  in  her 
arms,  and  smiled  back  at  her  pale 
delight.  Then  he  slipped  from  the 
cabin  to  the  wide,  dark  silence. 
The  lake  was  a  black  shield  ;  the 
stars  hung  poised  and  trembling, 
mysteriously  bright,  on  a  high  au- 
roral sky. 

Up  the  beach  crept  two  dusky 
figures,  reeling,  exhausted,  hurry- 
ing, hurrying  on.  Benedict  did 
not  recognize  them.  He  was  not 
relaxed  to  the  point  where  his 
thoughts  could  reach  beyond  that 
shadowed  room.  Yet  when  young 
Angus  griped  his  arm,  his  face  a 


DAWN 

wrung  mask  of  dread,  he  answered 
him  with  swift  reassurance : 

' '  Everything 's  all  right.  Go  in, 
but  keep  quiet.  She's  waiting  for 
you." 

Old  Angus,  haggard,  shame- 
stricken,  caught  the  low  word.  He 
sank  on  the  bench  outside  the  door ; 
his  rough  head  fell  in  the  covert  of 
his  arms. 

Benedict  laid  his  hand  lightly  on 
his  shoulder.  "  Brace  up,  McAlis- 
ter.  Can't  you  face  good  news? 
Besides,  she'll  be  wanting  you  in 
a  minute,  too." 

"Wantin'  me  I"  The  old  man 
stood  up ;  his  hard  face  broke  and 
quivered.  "An'  why  should  she 
be  afther  wantin'  me,  the  man  who 
has  teased  an'  harrid  her,  who's 
grudged  her  her  happiness  —  " 
[5o] 


DAWN 

His  voice  trailed  away  into  si- 
lence. For  through  the  half-open 
door  came  a  low  summons.  Twon- 
net's  voice ;  no  longer  edged  with 
taunt,  sweet  with  the  ineffable 
sweetness  of  her  mother-joy. 

"Is  it  that  you  will  not  come 
to  behol'  your  gift  of  Christmas, 

this  little  Angus,  mon   pere,  mon 

•  i » 
ami  t* 

Benedict  laughed  out  tenderly  as 
the  old  man,  struck  to  the  heart, 
turned  and  blundered  in.  The 
sound  recalled  some  vague  har- 
assing thought.  A  recollection? — 
a  fantasy  ? 

He  pressed  his  hands  against  his 
head.  What  was  that  dream  that 
had  haunted  him  last  night,  many 
nights,  of  a  knotted  thong  that 
bound  him,  ever  tightening?  For 
[5:] 


DAWN 

now  he  knew  no  pain  ;  and  his 
thoughts  folio  wed  one  upon  another, 
marshalled,  orderly.  He  picked  a 
dry  leaf  from  the  oak  near  by  and 
looked  at  it  intently.  The  tracery 
of  veins,  the  shadings  fine  as  a 
moth's  wing,  were  clear  to  his 
sight  as  though  etched  in  steel.  He 
walked  a  few  rods  ;  his  steps  rang 
clear  and  steady  upon  the  frozen 
ground. 

Then  a  great,  quiet  wonder  came 
upon  him.  He  stopped  and  looked 
down  at  his  bare,  outstretched 
hands.  And  they  were  calm. 

He  turned  to  the  low  kindling 
East.  A  light  wind  sighed  and 
drifted ;  softly  the  pines  intoned 
their  high  rejoicing  chant.  He 
looked  deep  into  the  crystal  of  the 
miracle:  his  lost  life,  given  back  to 


DAWN 

him  entire  and  perfect,  its  every 
noble  power  his  to  use  once  more. 
The  craft  of  cunning  hand ;  the 
majesty  of  sight ;  the  supreme 
might  of  trained,  unshaken  brain, 
strong,  confident,  unfailing.  It 
was  all  his,  this  prince's  inheri- 
tance. Ah,  gift  of  gifts,  the  strength 
to  toil  once  more! 

And  over  the  ramparts  of  the 
hills,  hushed  in  the  peace  of  victory, 
lifted  the  white  oriflamme  of  the 
Day. 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


J£?9.UTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  05^  533     8 


